Bookends

by Jane Green

  ‘I really think you’re doing the right thing.’

  We wander round Primrose Hill, then sit outside one of the cafés for a quick coffee, where Mouse misbehaves himself horrendously by trying to mount every dog – male and female – that has the misfortune to pass. After we’ve dropped Mouse back, I tell Si to let me off at Bookends, because, even though it’s my day off, I can’t resist seeing how busy it is every Saturday.

  And at the end of the day, I get home and am about to listen to my messages, when the phone rings. It’s James.

  ‘And what are you up to now?’ he asks, when I have finished burbling my news down the phone, trying hard to push the picture of his forearms out of my mind. ‘I hope you’re doing something extra special.’

  ‘Actually I’m staying in,’ I laugh. ‘Everyone’s busy, and I’m treating myself to a lovely lazy night in.’

  ‘Cath, you can’t possibly stay in tonight. It’s not allowed. You are, on the other hand, allowed to have a lovely lazy night in, but I’m afraid it will have to be at my place, because I’m bored too and I want some company. Say, eight-ish?’

  How could I possibly refuse?

  Just before I leave the house I record a message on Si’s machine telling him he’s a pain in the arse, but that I’ve finally done something I think he’d be proud of. And it isn’t a shopping spree in Designer Heaven.

  I check myself in the mirror and grin at my reflection, which, thanks to the stress of the last few weeks with Si, is looking just the tiniest bit smaller, and are those… could they possibly be… cheekbones?

  Ten minutes later I’m standing outside James’s door, and when he opens it he gives me a big hug and immediately hands me a glass of champagne.

  ‘Hmm,’ I say, as soon as I walk through the studio and into the living area. I inhale deeply, sniffing what smells suspiciously like lavender furniture polish, and today, unlike the last time I visited, James really has put me to shame. Today the piles of papers have all disappeared and the furniture is gleaming, helped somewhat by the flickering candlelight emanating from the huge gothic torches on either side of the fireplace.

  ‘This smells far too clean for you, James,’ I say, running my finger along the coffee table and feigning surprise at finding no dust.

  ‘Oh, please, you’ve only been here once. And correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the woman who wouldn’t know clean if it came up to her on the street and spat in her eye?’

  ‘Charming! As it happens, James, I vaguely remember you saying that housework wasn’t your thing either. In fact, no, no, I remember you saying you were horribly messy and couldn’t get your act together.’

  ‘Let’s just say I wanted to prove to you that I had another side,’ he laughs, sitting down next to me on the sofa.

  ‘I can see,’ I say, raising the champagne glass together with an eyebrow. ‘Are we celebrating something?’

  ‘The fact that you haven’t cancelled me, perhaps?’ he says, grinning.

  ‘Now, now. The night is still young. Give me half an hour and I’ll be doing another runner.’

  ‘You had so better not do that,’ he says sternly. I apologize and tell him that really is the last thing on earth I will be doing tonight.

  ‘So.’ He reaches for his glass on the table.

  ‘So.’ I smile, as we toast one another.

  ‘To health, happiness and your future as a bookshop mogul or, failing that, a cleaning woman.’

  ‘A bookshop mogul or a cleaning woman?’ I laugh. ‘What a choice!’

  ‘Look at it this way,’ he says, taking a sip. ‘You’ll be the Mr Waterstone of your generation, or the Mrs Mop, even if it kills me,’ and I laugh.

  ‘How’s your friend,’ he says, putting the glass down. ‘Is he dealing with it better now?’

  ‘He’s really okay, actually.’ I flush slightly at the memory of the state I was in the last time I saw James, but he doesn’t mention it, and I push the thought out of my mind and carry on. ‘He’s started doing a course for people who have been recently diagnosed, and he’s met this amazing woman. She’s had it for thirteen years, and it’s just completely changed her life, for the better. So he seems to have started coming to terms with it now, which is extraordinary, given the state he was in.’

  James shivers. ‘Horrible thought. Here we all are, thinking it couldn’t happen to us, and boom, suddenly someone you know gets it and it completely changes your opinion.’

  ‘God, I know. Tell me about it,’ and I lapse into silence, desperate to talk about something else before I start getting morose, but luckily James seems to realize and he changes the subject.

  ‘Just keep still!’ he says suddenly, and I freeze, expecting him to brush off an insect of some kind, but he reaches down and pulls a sketchbook out from under the sofa. ‘Keep still!’ he says, grabbing a pencil and starting to sketch.

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ he murmurs in a crap French accent that makes me laugh, even as he stares at me intently, glancing at the paper as he scribbles away, then back to me, as I start to feel increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Beautiful, beautiful.’

  I sip the champagne awkwardly, trying to keep my face as still as possible, just opening my lips a tiny bit to sip the champagne every now and then, and eventually James puts the pencil down, closes the sketchbook and picks up his glass again.

  ‘So how’s everything at Bookends?’

  ‘What!’ I practically shriek as I dive for the sketchbook, and he leaps out of my way as I open up the page to reveal a beautiful little sketch that looks exactly like me, only far, far prettier.

  ‘This is beautiful!’ I gasp, ‘even if it is the most flattering thing I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ James says. ‘That’s exactly what you look like. Trust me. I’m an artist,’ and I start to laugh.

  Soon we have relaxed into the sofa, talking softly, about relationships, marriage, and then, after a while, about Josh and Lucy.

  I tell him how hurt I am by Josh’s behaviour, that it’s putting me in an impossible situation, and that I wouldn’t wish this upon anyone, to know about an affair and not to be able to tell. The weekend that Josh is going away with Ingrid, I tell him, Si and I are spending Saturday night with Lucy, and I don’t know how good either of us will be at pretending that everything is normal.

  And James surprises me yet again. He surprises me because on the one hand I think of him as this estate agent who has a huge talent for painting, and who doesn’t seem to take life very seriously, and then on the other he can be incredibly wise and sensitive, weighing up a situation and offering exactly the right advice.

  He thinks that, however much we love Lucy, and love Lucy and Josh as a couple, it is not our place to interfere. He says that he knows it must hurt, but that whatever will be, will be, and that nothing we say or do will resolve things. It may in fact make things worse.

  He says that sometimes an affair, while not, obviously, the ideal, can make a marriage stronger. That there are usually reasons why one of the partners is straying in the first place, and often when they stray a step too far, they realize what it is they actually have at home, and come bouncing back with all the vigour of a newly-wed.

  But of course who can say if the trust will ever be there again?

  He asks whether, if push came to shove, I would have to make a choice, and I have to stop for a while, amazed that my immediate and unconscious answer would be Lucy. Amazed because had he asked me this question six months ago, I would undoubtedly have said Josh, because Josh, after all, has been my friend for far longer.

  Josh and I have a shared history, a common past, have known everything about one another since we were eighteen, but all that has now changed, and his infidelity has placed a wall between us, just as Bookends has permanently cemented my friendship with his wife.

  I realize that Josh and I haven’t really spoken for months, that I have done my utmost to avoid him, and that the overwhelming emotion I have when Josh is around is anger.


  But I know that James is right, that there is nothing I can say, or do, to change things. He goes to the kitchen, pulls another bottle of champagne out of the fridge (which is slightly worrying only because I haven’t eaten anything and I’m beginning to get seriously lightheaded), then sits down again, a few centimetres closer.

  Now this, I have to admit, would normally startle me, but the champagne is definitely starting to have an effect, and I note the closing distance between us with nothing other than amusement.

  But then he really startles me.

  ‘What about you and relationships?’ he says, out of the blue. ‘How come you’re still single?’

  I start to laugh. ‘That’s like asking how come the sun is yellow. Or a tree is green. It just is. It’s a fact of life. Didn’t you know that even the name Cath is synonymous with singledom?’

  James smiles. ‘You’re happy being single, though, aren’t you? You’re so independent, you never seem to need anybody. Christ, it’s taken me weeks to even get to see you by myself.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I’ve just always been incredibly happy with my friends, and I suppose I never have really needed anybody.’

  ‘It’s funny.’ He shakes his head. ‘When I first met you I thought you were incredibly tough, but you’re really soft inside, vulnerable. Oh God, I’ve gone too far. That sounded so naff, I’m sorry.’

  I start to blush, he starts to blush, and we both start speaking at the same time. I stop to let him carry on, and he does, looking at his glass rather than at me, and I know that he’s uncomfortable saying this, but he obviously feels he needs to make a point. ‘Look, without wanting this to sound like a line, I just think that you ought to let that softness show more often. You’re far more attractive when you do.’

  I laugh nervously, because no one’s called me attractive in a very, very long time, and even then I’m not entirely sure they meant it, and then, without even realizing it’s happening, he’s kissing me.

  Or I’m kissing him. Either way, we’re kissing, and once I’ve got over the shock, because I cannot even remember the last time I had a proper, passionate kiss (although this is far more gentle than passionate), we pull apart and I cannot wipe the smile off my face.

  ‘Is this okay?’ James whispers, and I nod, wondering whether it’s the champagne or the kiss that’s keeping this dopey grin on my face, but then not wondering for too much longer as he kisses me again.

  ‘Shit!’ I jump away as champagne pours on to my trousers, my having become so carried away the glass just flopped from my hand, and James laughs.

  ‘Let me get a cloth,’ I say, but he shakes his head, takes me by the hand and leads me up the stairs.

  I follow him mutely, feeling as if I’m in a dream, because this surely can’t be happening, not to me. I just don’t do this any more. I don’t have sex. Aaargh! Sex! Oh God. He’s leading me to the bedroom.

  Fortunately the grin is still plastered to my face, hiding this inner turmoil, but anyway, my body doesn’t seem to be listening, as it follows him up the stairs and into his bedroom as if on auto-pilot.

  The grin disappears pronto as he starts undressing me. Oh God, I pray, as he unbuttons my cardigan. Please let my bra not be too old, please let it not be too grey, and I have to admit I do lose the passion of the moment as I furiously try to remember which bra I put on this morning, and when was the last time it had been washed.

  Two minutes later I breathe a sigh of relief as James switches off the main lights, a soft glow coming from the small lamp on what is obviously his – right – side of the bed, and I make a mental note to stick to the shadows on the left.

  And then I don’t have to think any more, because what has felt like a film, suddenly starts to feel very real indeed, and I close my eyes, wrap myself around James and…

  … beautiful, tender, loving, warm, comfortable… shall I go on? How could I have forgotten? How could I have lived without this? How could I have run away from this for so many years, when it isn’t scary at all, it’s absolutely right, and lovely.

  It’s so lovely that just after James has entered me (condom-encased, of course), just after he’s whispered, ‘Is this okay?’, just as he’s starting to move inside me, I start to cry. Not like that time in James’s office. Crying this time with pleasure. With forgotten memories. With sheer and utter bliss, and despite the tears I’m smiling, and although James is concerned, I reassure him and soon there’s nothing left to say.

  … And, let’s just say that Si was right, it is exactly like riding a bicycle, and everything I thought I’d forgotten comes back in a flash, and it feels wonderful.

  Better than wonderful. Perfect.

  I have to get up three times in the night to pee, which is hardly surprising considering the amount of champagne I had to drink, but every time I come back into the bedroom to see James lying there, the duvet thrown back from his naked body, I can’t help but grin to myself again.

  And every time I climb back into bed, rolling over to my side, away from him so he isn’t hit with the full force of morning mouth, he reaches over for my hand and gives it a squeeze, falling asleep again, holding my hand.

  James sleeps like a log. I listen to his breathing and roll over to watch him when I am quite sure he is asleep, because sleep is evidently not on the agenda for me tonight, not after this.

  But eventually I seem to drop off for a short while, and I swear, if it is at all possible to fall asleep smiling, then that is what I do, and as I give in to sleep I think that it’s not that I had forgotten how lovely sex could be, it’s that it never was this lovely before.

  I wake up before James the next morning. I creep out of bed and pull on my clothes, making my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth as best I can using my finger, and leave before he wakes up.

  And it doesn’t feel quite the same in the morning. In the cold light of day I’m frightened. No. Make that terrified. I’m terrified because I have now put myself in the position of potentially being hurt, and that is something I have managed to successfully avoid for years.

  And James could really hurt me, I think, coming back out of the bathroom and sneaking a final gaze at him before he wakes up, before I leave, avoiding the inevitable awkwardness of the morning after. Look at him lying there, his hair even more tousled than usual, his lips puffy with sleep, so vulnerable and soft and gorgeous, I could almost squeeze the life out of him.

  He opens his eyes. I jump slightly, and he smiles sleepily, holding out his hand, and I wasn’t expecting this. I walk over and perch on the edge of the bed, and he pulls me down for a kiss, while I thank God I had the presence of mind to get up and swallow toothpaste.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he says.

  ‘Home.’ I start to get up. ‘So much to do.’

  He hoists himself up on the pillows and rubs his eyes, looking so much like a little boy I want to just take him in my arms, but of course I can’t do that. I have to leave.

  ‘Cath,’ he says, holding my hand and looking deeply into my eyes. ‘Don’t leave. Don’t put the barriers up again, you don’t need to, not with me, and not after last night.’

  I falter, not knowing what to say, and he can see there’s a chink of hope.

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll get up and we can go out, get the papers and have breakfast together. And before you say no I bet you didn’t have any plans today anyway.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ I finally grumble, standing up and walking out of the room to avoid having to see him naked in the cold light of day, because I’m sure I would just shrivel with embarrassment, and more to avoid him seeing the huge grin that has just lit up my face. ‘I’ll wait downstairs.’

  Chapter thirty

  Si and I stop at the corner shop en route to Lucy’s to pick up some wine, even though it’s hardly necessary, with their well-stocked wine cupboard, and a couple of giant bars of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, because there’s no better sustenance for a Saturday night in than chocolate, and then we ro
ll up at Lucy’s.

  I haven’t said anything about James. Ridiculous as this may sound, this is my secret right now, and I want to keep it precious and safe, at least until I know it’s not just a quick fling.

  ‘Who is it?’ Max’s voice wafts through the door, loud and clear. I look at Si, but he just grins and keeps quiet, so I give it a whirl.

  ‘Hello, Max. It’s Auntie Cath and Uncle Si. Are you going to be a good boy and open the door?’

  There’s silence from the other side, and I can tell that Si is loving every second of this. I make a face at him and eventually he leans down and says, ‘Max?’

  A pause, then, ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Uncle Si. Do you want to see what I’ve got for you?’

  Another pause. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can’t see it if you won’t open the door, can you?’

  Brilliant. Si and I stand on the doorstep listening to Max’s thought process, and then, when Max decides that in fact Si’s plan is not flawed after all, the door slowly opens, and we look down into Max’s expectant face.

  ‘Okay, Max.’ Si crouches down and looks him in the eye. ‘Which would you prefer? A fire engine or… a piece of chocolate?’

  Max stops to think. ‘A fire engine,’ he says eventually, as I start to laugh.

  ‘Oh well. Chocolate will just have to do.’ Si shrugs and hands him a small Dairy Milk, which doesn’t seem to go down at all badly, and makes a change from Si’s most recent presents for Max, which include a sailor, a policeman and an Indian warrior. Although Si would not dream of saying anything to Josh for fear of compromising his son’s impending masculinity, Si is aiming to keep going until Max has the entire set of the Village People.

  ‘Cath! Si! I’m in the kitchen!’

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ Si laughs, and we walk down the corridor, taking off our coats as Lucy appears in the doorway.

  ‘Quick, quick, big gossip! Huge!’ She hurries us into the kitchen, where bowls of guacamole are already sitting on the table, with nachos waiting to be dipped in and a bottle of wine.